Into the Looking Glass
by FemmeDraconis
Summary: What does one do when they are unsure of the future? Go to see the Oracle of course. But beware of what you may find.


_Author's Note_: I think that this little story is set apart from my others. I'm not exactly sure why, but I feel that it is. Anyway, I don't want to give anything away, but I hope that it isn't too confusing. I like leaving a lot of details out, for the imagination, you know, but I don't want anyone to be completely lost. And I really, desperately want to know what people think of this story, so please review. I'd like to thank my wonderful friend and beta, Tristan2 for editing this. Please check her out, she writes fics as well. Flames are okay, I suppose, but as long as they contain constructive criticism. Enjoy.

_Into The Looking Glass_

I will tell you a story.

I went to See the Oracle at Delphi.

Intrigued by the descriptions of the rigid, frozen, heartless bitch that the rumors referred to her as, I traveled to find her, raking my way through confusion. I had read about her often in the papers, and I did not think her to be cruel at all.

I thought her very lonely. And very beautiful and stately on her tall, elaborate chair at the peak of the mountain. She being as ornate and delicate as the silk and gold weaved all around her. A living dream. A lonely dream.

And so I sought her out.

I wanted to speak with her, _understand_ her – even though it was a lot to ask.

I still remember the journey to her pillar.

From the moment I lay eyes on it, I understood even more of why she must be lonely. Delphi is not a city, or province, or anything like that. It is a beautiful, barren island in the middle of an ocean. The perfect picture of isolation, it floated alone, with only a small boat tethered to the land near me to get to it.

When I reached the island there was a narrow, sandy path sloping upwards toward an immeasurably high throne.

I walked slowly upward, trying to think of nothing. The sand scraped underneath my bare feet and the sun burst around me, and I thought of everything I had left, although there was not much.

Harry was dead. So was Draco. So were Ron and Hermione and their unborn baby. And everyone else. And if I was supposed to be a Seer, how could I not have been able to change anything?

So I searched for the Oracle, greedy for answers like every other avaricious seeker of knowledge that visited her. 

It took me less time than I thought to come upon her.

And I was stricken when I saw her. She swelled with majesty and knowledge, and she watched me as one who watches a visitor they expected.

And she did not speak to me.

She simply gestured for me to sit in a high-backed chair beside her.

I followed orders. And then her forehead was upon my own.

*          *          *          *          *          *

In one life she taught Harry how to kiss, you know. 

He had been sitting next to her by the fire at Hogwarts. He had looked at her, and he had loved. She had tried. When his lips touched her, unsure, shaky, moist, she had held onto him, and guided him. That was her favorite memory with Harry. They married in that life. He died killing Voldemort.

In another life Draco taught her how to drive. The Oracle said that out of all of her lives with Draco, that life was the best. After falling in love during his seventh-year and facing the wrath of his family they had run away to a Muggle town in America. There was a lot of land there, she said. And lots of open space and wildflowers. And ironically, since he had got the knack of driving before she had, he taught her. Draco was killed by his father when they had gone home, seeking understanding.

There were so many. So many loves and losses. The Oracle had watched Ron marry in all of her lives. In a few of them he died and in some of them Hermione had followed him. In most of them they had had children. The Oracle had watched her parents die, always together. 

Shockingly, the Oracle told me that she had also mastered the ability to See into the past.

She told me that she had seen her birth. I trembled when she told me that, for I knew then that she understood me. 

You see, something had gone wrong with the both of us. People are conceived from love most of the time. 

And it's wonderful.

Because when we are born, our parents cry and sing with joy; this ethereal being that they have conjured without wands, this bundle of flowing blood, snaking magic of flesh. Ten fingers and ten toes.

But for the children themselves – the ones like me- I cry. The ones with ten fingers and ten toes, and the most perfect, perfect teeny toenails. And tendrils of hair, and shining, glittering orbs of trust and dawn. And the small, new lungs pumping inside of them – not to speak of the various others organs of life.

And the heart that is supposed to sustain them, keep them alive.

Those children like me I would mourn for, and love.

Except I can't. They were born like me.

Without a heart. And all of us deformed and broken.

We – the Oracle and I – are gifted with the curse of being heartless because of our onerous task.

The Oracle, a magnificent, alluring woman sat before me with tears traversing down her pale cheeks. Her blood red hair splayed about her, mirroring the splaying of her fingers as they reached out to me. 

I cared not about what all the others said, for her troubles were my own. I loved her.

My own life about to end, I sought her out and found her, my mirror. And I reached for her.

We touched.

I am sure that there was a lot of light. Either that or a lot of darkness, because I was momentarily blind. And through our link of self I could tell she was too. But that might have just been because we were merged.

*          *          *          *          *          *

I touched my two hands together wanting to feel the texture of my own skin, the warmth that flows through the seams of the body and flesh.

But I could not feel it. For The Oracle is not allowed to.

To everyone she is dead, cold, remote. Beautiful and desired and despised because of her endless knowledge. All of the people want her – me – because they fear the future. And they hate us when they discover it.

I am still just a young girl in my mind. Just Virginia M. Weasley. 

And I guess in a way you could say that I am. The Oracle is ageless that way. From the moment she sits upon her throne of rock, ice and gold she is almost immortal.

I laugh when people believe that – Immortal. 

It is not that simple.

I age in the most painful way possible.

I watch everyone around me die.

I have seen Dumbledore die and Voldemort too. (Harry and the others have been most creative in formulating his demise.)

And I have watched all my loved ones die – many times, actually. Though the first time will always be ingrained in my skull.

Shall I list them?

Percy? He sought knowledge and belonging. He became a Death Eater. When he realized the error of his ways and tried to return to the family, his consorts caught up with him. They inflicted a curse on him that taught him ritual suicide and forced him to commit it. I can remember his haunted eyes, streaming with tears and pain, yet oddly glazed over, as if the calculating part of his mind was fascinated with the way his hands drove the knife into himself and across.

Bill? The Dark Side wanted him to join them as he was one of the top curse breakers in the world. He refused. They let him off easy. They told him to try and break the Cruatius Curse. He did not – he could not. He died from split nerve endings.

Charlie? He was thought to be insignificant and not worthy of a 'grand death'. So they took his wand from him and shut him up in a tomb in Egypt one night when he was alone. He died of asphyxiation. We were able to recover his body a few days later. He had a girlfriend – Sasha, I think her name was. It was morbidly beautiful to see her kiss his cold, blue lips.

Fred and George? Born together, they died together. Well, actually, some of the Death Eaters thought that the twins' jokes had been rather funny. And so they played a prank of their own. They put the Imperious on them, and made them kill one another. I remember that one Death Eater wrote it off as a bad side affect from a Puking Pasty. How funny.

Mum and Dad? Even after so many of us had died, they still refused to give me over to Voldemort. And so they were taught the gift of giving. After they kissed for one last time, two Dementers were fetched so that they could hand over their souls. They 'died' holding hands. Years later, their hearts stopped beating. Ron buried them, as I could not.

And Ron? Oh, Ron. It is terrible to say, but I think I miss him the most, out of all of my brothers. He was my own twin, in a way. The first time he died was actually happy, from what I remember. He, Hermione, and Harry had conquered Voldemort. In that life, I was in love with Harry, but was not able to be with him because I soon left for my Oracle duties. Ron became an auror and worked for the Ministry, Hermione did as well. They had five children. I recall receiving an owl from the Ministry informing me of their deaths - old age. It hadn't really mattered – getting the owl, I mean – because I Saw it happen before I got the owl. So much for timely post.

And finally we come to Harry and Draco. Draco and Harry.

I could choose to speak of their deaths, but I refuse. I opt for remembering their lives, instead. 'How is it possible to love two men?' I used to wonder.

It just is.

I suppose that it is easier to love when you do not really have a heart. (You remember that Oracles aren't allowed to have _real_ ones, right?) But that is a feeble excuse.

I loved them each in my very own way. I loved them fully, and wholly, and painfully. In two lives that I remember, I fell in love with them both. But they both died in those two lives.

Sometimes they didn't want me back. And while I remember crying and feeling terribly broken, I realize now that it was almost better to not have had them, than to have been able to hold them, and kiss them, than have them torn away from me.

And yet again, I think that that is wrong as well. For what company would I have if I did not have my fond memories of them to swirl around me?

Because it gets horribly, terribly lonely sitting here upon my gilded hill of glass and rock and gold, feeding visions to the masses, trying to avoid war, waiting for the next Virginia M. Weasley to come to me with her sorrows. I hate her for it.

Because it stirs up ancient, painful memories that I have tried to avoid. She seeks understanding from the cold, beautiful, all-powerful Oracle – not realizing that the Oracle is she. And that she will never leave Delphi again.

So is it really a wonder to people that I am cold, and bitter and 'bitchy', when suffering has been my only teacher, my only dessert and willing companion?

But I do not wish to delve into my feelings. I cannot allow myself to weaken, or to feel. I was born without a heart for a reason. So I won't talk anymore.

Anyway, here comes another Virginia. The next and not the last. She has come to confide in the beautiful Oracle at Delphi. And she will remain with me – inside of me.

Beautiful, Cold, and Deformed.

*          *          *          *          *          *

~Femme.


End file.
